


Cotton and Silk

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Johnlock Trope Challenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Challenge Response, Domestic life in 221B, Implied Sexual Content, Johnlock Trope Challenge, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Snarky Mycroft, Tropes, newly lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are woken by an unexpected visitor at the door. John gets up to answer and grabs the quickest item of clothing available - Sherlock's blue dressing gown.</p><p>For Day 16 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: Clothing Swap</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cotton and Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is a series of one-shots for a challenge and these stories will be wildly different in style and tone as I try out some new things. They aren't meant to connect to each other in any way. There's a 48-hour window to write and submit these, so results may vary!

Hammering. The incessant sound of a nail being pounded into wood pierced John’s sleep, slowly dredging him up from a dream that had something to do with thunder and sand. Who the hell would be hammering a wall at -- he rubbed his eyes, looked at his watch still on his wrist -- at 6:45 in the morning? He listened, confused, but the sound seemed to have stopped.

He turned over, settled his head back on the pillow, shifted his leg, hit something hard with his knee.

“Ow.” The voice was low, a grumble.

John opened his eyes again, was greeted by dark lashes and sharp cheekbones and a petulant mouth belonging to the unhappy owner of a now-bruised shin. Ah, yes… last night...

It was the seventh time they had shared a bed -- a week now -- still a novel situation, but comfortable enough for John to shift closer, claim those lips, apologize softly. “Sorry.”

“What was that bloody noise?” Sherlock mumbled, stealing more of the sheet and gathering it under his chin, trying to get back to sleep.

“I don’t know. Hammering.”

Just then there was more pounding, this time distinctly on the door to the flat.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock muttered.

“Stay here. I’ll get it.” John sat up, looked around for his clothes, but to no avail. Then he remembered the trail of discarded garments ending at the kitchen table. He felt a heat rising in his lower belly at the memory of sharp shoulder blades, a perfect bridge of vertebrae leading to the small of a back, the curve of a hip where his hand had rested...

A fist banged on the door again, and John snapped back to the present. He caught sight of Sherlock’s blue dressing gown draped over a chair. That would have to do. He slipped on the robe, tied the belt, ran a hand through his hair, shouted, “Yeah, alright, alright. Coming.” He opened to door to find Mycroft Holmes on the threshold.

They both opened their mouths to say something, then both closed their mouths. Mycroft’s eyes traveled from John’s head to his feet, then around the room, then back to John’s face. “Good morning,” Mycroft finally intoned. “Sorry to… disturb you.”

John decided he could play it sheepishly or soldierly. Choosing the latter, he straightened his back, opened the door wider. “Good morning. Come in.”

Mycroft stepped in, jabbed the tip of his umbrella onto the floor. “I’ve come to see my brother. It’s rather urgent.”

“Oh, of course it’s urgent. It’s always urgent.” Sherlock emerged from the bedroom wrapped in a sheet, hair mussed, immediately causing Mycroft to frown and John to lower his head, smirking.

“Must you always parade about in bedclothes?” Mycroft asked wearily. “Don’t you have -- oh, I don’t know -- a dressing gown?” he asked pointedly.

“I have several.”

“Oh, yes. Didn’t you receive a blue one from Mummy last Christmas?”

John quickly glanced down, then crossed his arms.

Mycroft held a folder out to Sherlock. “For the case I texted you about last evening. You didn’t reply.”

“I was busy.”

Mycroft flicked his eyes at the clothing strewn on the floor. “No doubt. If you could have a look at the file as soon as possible…?”

Sherlock took the folder from his hand, flipped it open, glanced through several sheets of paper. “Fine. Yes.” He tossed the file onto the table, turned back to Mycroft. “Good bye.”

Mycroft’s face pulled into a sneer, which he forced into a thin smile. “I’ll be in touch.” He nodded briefly at John, let his gaze settle on the robe one more time. “Good day.”

John shut the door behind him, looked at Sherlock, who was leaning against the table and heaving a sigh.

“I think he -- ” John started, and Sherlock cut off the rest of his sentence with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Of course he knows. What of it?” Sherlock pushed himself from the table and closed the distance to John. “It doesn’t matter,” he continued, his fingers going to the tie at John’s waist, finding the loose knot, pulling it free. He dipped his head, his lips brushing against John’s neck, his voice a vibration that traveled down John’s spine to his animal core. “I want to go back to bed.”

The white sheet slipped, unwound, settling on the floor with a crisp whisper of cotton, the soft rush of blue silk dropping and pooling onto the red wool rug.


End file.
